


Aneth Ara, Fen'harel

by ObsidianMichi



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Minor Angst, Past Abelas/Lavellan, Post Game, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:58:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3323258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianMichi/pseuds/ObsidianMichi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Solas returns to Skyhold, he discovers restoring the old routine is harder than he anticipated. Fortunately, Abelas is there to get him on the right path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aneth Ara, Fen'harel

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Ottabox as part of the Kiss Meme prompt on Tumblr. (7. Kiss on the Lips (Passionate) It takes place post-game and is post one of my older fics "Lingering in the Sun".
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

It had been a month since Solas had returned to Skyhold. Returned to the Inquisition. Returned to her. The hallways felt the same as they always had, if a bit chillier. The people more so than the place. He had expected it. Their coldness and their distance did not surprise him, left him a bit sadder perhaps, but his poor decision making earned them the right to at least a little scorn. He deserved as much. He had abandoned them after their battle with Corypheus, lied to them about his true nature. Planned… Well, he turned the page, still planned to fulfill his original goal. He had merely been convinced by their Herald that they could, indeed, do it together. Yet, he had not seen her since their encounter in the Fade.

In the Fade, Eirwen had given him her forgiveness, had convinced him to return to the place where the sky was held back. She knew what he was and, in her way, she set him free.

So, he waited.

And waited.

And waited still.

Head lifting whenever footsteps approached his study. Determinedly ignoring Dorian’s chastising gaze when the Tevinter mage appeared to consult him. Taking the missives and misplaced marriage offers from Orlesian nobles asking for the Inquisitor’s hand that Josephine’s runners stuffed between the pages of his manuscripts without complaint.

He took Varric’s suggestions of patience. Found himself humbled by the dwarven rogue’s forgiveness and continued friendship. Cole visited, sharing stories and offering him counsel in the dead of the night, but their relationship was not what it was. His absence had hurt the Inquisitor deeply and Cole, for all his compassion, was resentful of that cut. Of a wound Solas’ presence may have only inflamed instead of cured.

The others were not so warm.

Dorian still visited, on occasion. Bull was amenable, but distant. Blackwall spent a few evenings with him, here and there. Among them all, the fallen warrior alone understood or, at least, sought to understand.

Vivienne laughed at him with her usual snobbish derision. There was a coldness in her eyes now, however. A truly personal grudge carried out by her servants in their distractions whenever he thought to step beyond the boundaries of his study. If he did, then her gaze lashed him from her position above the main hall. A cold stalking silence, enjoying the sight of nearly every noble falling over themselves to once again drive him back. If she knew what he was, she did not fear him—he doubted the Orlesian Court’s Madame de Fer feared any creature, god or man—and she did not want him near the Inquisitor.

Where once he might have thought it came from a desire to retain her influence, and surely that was present, he realized now it came from a desire to protect one dearly loved. Eirwen was Vivienne’s treasured friend, a trusted companion, a protégé of a sort, and the older mage would be damned if she allowed him, whether unwashed apostate or ancient god of elven lore, to harm her again.

Cassandra… She avoided him. Busy with her coronation as Divine, she had little time for anyone, yet he suspected a reckoning to be inevitable.

He had lost the high ground with Sera. Yet, she took no joy in tormenting him. No bees waited for him when he returned. No sticky substances clung to his books. No wiggling in the legs of his chair. No hornets lurked inside his desk drawers. She ignored him utterly. It was her total absence, next to Eirwen’s, which hurt most deeply. A fact, he discovered, to be more than a little surprising.

And then, Abelas.

Always Abelas.

Mythal’s ancient guardian was everywhere, came up constantly, and somehow featured into each conversation. He knew the rumors about Abelas and the Inquisitor all too well, if it did not come up one way then it did another. Loudly whispered in conversations from the rotunda. Shouted outside his door. Conversed about in the stairwell. Occasionally paper scraps and tiny paper birds drifted down overhead from with the latest simply to keep him informed.

Enough to drive him mad.

_Yet, Abelas has not come to see me either._ Both Mythal’s ancient guardian and the Inquisitor seemed intent on avoiding him. Among them all, his lack of appearance was the strangest for Abelas had the least reason to carry a personal grudge and the most likely to want whatever answers he possessed. They were of the same people, both of the Elvhen. _Perhaps, he believes I abandoned him as well._

Solas stretched and turned another page in his tome.

It should have mattered more than it did.

Leaning back, his finger tapped his deck, chewing inside his cheek. He closed his eyes.

The door to his study opened, the one leading to the courtyard, the calm sound of hardened feet padding across stone.

Solas glanced up.

The familiar bronze armor of Abelas glittered in the torchlight, head half hidden beneath a great hood. Hardened yellow eyes, corners creased in sorrow, glittered from within the cowl’s shadow. Mythal’s vallaslin still tattoed upon his nose and brow. The taller elf strode forward, calmly regal, until he reached the desk.

“Abelas,” Solas said.

“I see you continue to hide here,” Abelas said.

He stiffened. Straightened.

“A strange sight to be sure,” Abelas continued. “The Dreaded Wolf waiting moodily with his tail tucked.”

“What brings you, Lethallin?” He leaned forward. “I imagine it was not merely to insult me.”

The skin upon the other elf’s brow twitched, had he any hair there his eyebrow might have rose. “I have waited on the sidelines long enough,” Abelas replied. “This foolish dance between the two of you must end.”

_The two of us?_ He blinked. “You mean myself and the Inquisitor? I hardly see how it involves you.”

A bronze gauntleted hand landed on the table. “A god you may be, worshipped in temples now only a distant and faded memory. Keeper of knowledge well beyond that which I may comprehend. Yet,” Abelas leaned forward, “even I may recognize a pair of fools when I see them. And you, Dread Wolf are quite the fool,” he said. “She will not wait forever.”

_She has been waiting?_ Waiting for him? _Why?_ The Eirwen Lavellan he knew never waited for anyone, she was clear and forthright in what she wanted. Cautious, yes, but hesitance was not in her nature. Unless… had he wounded her more deeply than he imagined, more deeply than she let on?

The other elf shook his head. “I have come to offer you a gift. Though I see now the offering may be in vain.”

“You wish to offer me a gift?” Solas stood. “Some secret knowledge of the Inquisitor, perhaps?” The suggestion Abelas knew her better rankled. “Are you going to aid me in recovering my position within the Inner Circle? Or will you dictate to me how I should approach her so as not to grievously wound her again?”

“See past your pride, Dread Wolf,” Abelas said. “She has changed much since you left. It is possible you do not know her as well as you believe.”

He paused. “What do you mean?”

“Travel with me and see.”

 

***

  
Solas had been surprised when they left Skyhold behind them, traveling into the mountains along a thin winding path until they arrived at midday in a small glade somewhere deep in the mountain pass leading to Tarasy’lan Te’las. It was a strange place. A raised wooden scaffold stood in the center, circled by four straw-filled practice mannequins. Atop the scaffold was a simple, flat platform.

On the platform was a half-naked Inquisitor.

Solas felt the smugness in the elf on his left.

Hands pressed firmly on the beams, Eirwen lay flat on the platform. Slowly, body flat, legs tight together, entirely stiff, she lifted herself with her arms. Biceps tensed, core tight, jaw flexing, tightening, she locked her arms and stared straight ahead. Parallel to the beams, she held herself there. Overhead, sunlight cut through the branches and dappled the platform with light and shadow. Sweat slipped off Eirwen’s chin as she tilted forward, arms bent, and brought her knees in to her chest.

Her legs extended out again, body tilting further, arms straightening, she rolled forward into a handstand. Toes pointed up into the noon day sky, legs straight, muscles quivering. Her orange hair dangled off her scalp, swaying over thin wood.

He could see her deltoids clench, muscles moving beneath sun warmed skin when she adjusted herself. The cut of her muscles were more apparent now than they’d ever been before. Solas nearly closed his eyes, her body had changed immensely in the months he’d been gone. The soft curves vanished, replaced by hardened muscle. Her lithe, delicate frame had grown stocky. More warrior now than mage, more gymnast than dancer. Signs of fewer hours spent in the libraries. Her extra time now belonged to the practice courts.

This woman’s body was harder, frame cut with sharp, jagged lines. Angrier. New scars peppered her back. Yellowed bruises on the right side of her rib cage.

Yet, at the same time, her spirit was calmer. Centered.

Eirwen’s arms bent, her whole body dropping down in a slow controlled motion, then she pushed up. Her legs quivered. Sweat dripped off her hair in small globs. One. Two. Three. She dropped again, body sliding down until her head nearly brushed the platform. Then, up. Straightened, reset her hands. Down again, and up. A little faster, a little more sure. Another breath, another exhale.

He could feel her smile.

Her legs spread, dropping wide into a split. Lower and lower, until her body formed a perfectly shaped T. Loose brown pants clung to her thighs, swaying under her ankles. A ripple passed up her chest and she released a slow exhalation.

One second. Two. Three.

Her legs lifted into a V, she leaned left. One hand rose off the platform, stretching right until her arm created a perfect parallel.

Her body trembled.

He felt the gathering tendrils of Fade twisting around her, rolling through her. Eirwen’s body acted as a conduit, a gateway, her concentration doubling to channel magic into every fiber of her being. Lilting music tugged and played, a symphony never ending thrummed in her thin frame. The shining gateway, a pathway deep into the Fade open in her soul. A weapon forged, a spirit in harmony. Content within the torrential ebb and flow of magic. An anchor now in more than just name.

_She has truly grown into an elite warrior. An equal now, perhaps to any of those serving within the ancient temples during the days of Arlathan._ His gaze moved to Abelas, watching the taller elf’s arms cross. Saw the proud smile tugging his lips. “You have been training her.”

It was an accusation as much as a statement.

“The Inquisitor expressed an interest,” Abelas replied. “And showed aptitude. She has taken well to the Dirth’ena Enasal.”

“It is not far removed from her Knight Enchanter training,” Solas said. “She excelled in it, if I recall.”

“Ghilan’him banal’vhen,” Abelas murmured. “I believe you once named it.”

_The path that leads astray,_ Solas swallowed. He had. _The art of those in the service of greater masters._ It had frustrated him to see her debase herself in such a way, even as her interest in their past gratified him. She chose the path of service instead of leadership. Yet, as he looked on her now, he saw another approach leading to a similar point of understanding. A connection to the Fade truly different from his own, unified in body and spirit by an exploration of will, control, and concentration. A scholarly interest studied through quiet, moving meditation.

“I have aided her as best I can,” Abelas continued. “However, her powers quickly move beyond the realm of my expertise.”

Solas started.

On the platform, Eirwen scissored her legs, then brought them back together. Her hand returning to the beam. Then, her feet came forward, back arching, until the tips of her toes brushed wood. Her heels lay flat. Entire torso bending, stretching, her core flexed, clenched, and she sprang upright. Landing in a crouch, she exhaled a long streaming breath.

“I will continue to increase her training regimen.” Abelas’ voice was cool and dry, bland. “However, due to her unique circumstances, it would be best if another more versed in the Beyond began to aid me in her instruction.”

Solas half-expected her to look up. Instead, he saw her eyes close.

“The Anchor?” he asked.

“It has attuned itself,” Abelas said. “It is your magic no longer.”

Eirwen reached down. Her hands closing on a pair of objects he couldn’t see. Slowly, she straightened, drawing forth a pair of shining black daggers. Thin, black blades glittered in the sunlight, the curved, razor edges catching and glimmering as she rotated the hilts between her thumb and forefinger.

The blades spun in her hands, slashing through air in a harsh figure eight. Her eyes remained closed. Head shifting with each blow, the blades circling closer and closer to her ears, her arms. Close enough to shave fine hairs from sun kissed skin.

Solas inhaled sharply.

“She is merely tuning her body,” Abelas said. “Feeling the flow of her weapons in the air, in each and every fiber, drawn through her connection to the Fade. This allows her to widen her perceptions through sense and feeling, to pass beyond the physical plane.”

Her shape shimmered, flickering in and out between black shadows.

Eirwen whirled, blades wheeling in a complex pattern. Her left leg lashed out, hips twisting, rolling over into a blurred roundhouse. She swung, allowing the momentum to carry her, and switched legs. Her right whipped through the air. A strike destined to bring her heel crashing into some invisible opponent’s skull. In the moment before impact, she tensed, just a slight pause, then continued her spin. Foot landed, she transitioned into three forward stabs. They brought her to the platform’s very edge.

Springing back, she twisted through the air.

A snap of cold took her to left, to one of the dummies circling the platform. Her shadowy shape shivered, facing away from her target. Both blades rammed back, plunging deep into the straw stuffed practice mannequin.

Her body hurled sideways, blinking away. On the far side of the platform, the second dummy’s straw head hit the grass.

Simultaneously, straw burst through the chest of the dummy on the far right. Thin bits of yellow fluttered in the air, carried by a sudden draft. They fell like rain.

A shadow appeared in front of the closest dummy. Bright, glowing, silver-greenish eyes gleamed out of the inky black body. A flash followed, blades scissoring through the dummy’s throat. An explosion of straw followed.

Solas’ heart thudded to a stop.

Again, Eirwen vanished.

She reappeared on the platform, her back to them. Head turned to the side, damp orange hair fluttering in the slight breeze. Head dropped, eyes still closed, her blades loose between her fingers. Sweat soaked through her pale gray bra, sliding down her spine. More ran from her neck along sharp cut of her deltoids, tracing her arms’ finely cut triceps, her elbows. A faint, satisfied smile curved the corners of her lips.

Slowly, Solas swallowed. This was a woman he barely knew.

“Abelas!” Eirwen turned, wide, sky blue irises luminous in the sunlight. “Did you…” Her voice trailed off, eyes sliding sideways, fixing on him. Her mouth closed, dry lips pressing together. “Oh.” Fingers rose, still clutching her blade, she pushed back orange bangs. “I…” She stepped back. “Solas.” Her foot landed on empty air, missing the edge of the platform. Losing her balance, Eirwen let out a yelp and tumbled to the forest floor.

Solas took a step forward.

Beside him, Abelas chuckled. “Are you well, Lethallan?”

_Have I ever heard him laugh?_ Solas wondered.

“I’m good!” Came the reply. “Wait!” A pause. “Yes! I’m fine!”

Opening his mouth, Solas let his hands hang loose at his sides. Was she truly well? Did she want him to check on her? She had certainly been startled. He glanced at the other elf. The Inquisitor’s tendency to fall off any tall building, scaffolding, or hill was legendary. Still… “Is this common?”

“It happens,” Abelas replied. Golden eyes shifted from his student and Solas felt their stony gaze center on him. “Rarely.”

“Ah.”

So, his presence did have an impact. He should not have been pleased with the result. _And yet._

Eirwen’s legs rocked, tucked. She launched herself to her feet. Straightening, she brushed thin strands of grass off her loose, linen pants. Then, leaning down ever so slowly, Eirwen reclaimed her weapons from the forest floor.

It was odd to see her without a staff in her hands.

_Even so,_ he thought. _Her slow pace means she is considering her options._ Deciding, he supposed, whether she wished to speak with him. Wondering, perhaps, if Abelas had brought him or if he had snuck in behind Mythal’s guardian like some thief in the night. _Waiting to ambush her when she least expects it._ From her display, he suspected that if she truly wished to vanish then there would be little he could do to stop her. _Better to say would do. If she wishes to continue avoiding me then I must accept it._ They needed to do this on her terms or not at all.

Her mouth tucked into a tight, thin line.

_Unhappy?_ Perhaps.

She started toward them, bare feet all but silent as they padded across the ground. Light glinted off her shoulders, catching in her orange hair. Drops of sweat dribbled off heavy bangs.

Eirwen glanced at Abelas, one eyebrow lifted, her lips pursed.

A tiny smile twitched on the ancient guardian’s mouth, only just visible before the curve of his hood.

She rolled her eyes.

Glancing from one to the other, Solas felt a profound sense of loss shudder through him. _I am no longer her hahren._ He could not remember a time when they had ever known each other so well or their unspoken communication so fluid.

Eirwen sighed. Her eyes turned to him, blades rolling her hands. Her mouth twitched, eyebrows lifting wryly, suggestively, before she handed them to Abelas. “I guess,” she said. “We should talk.”

“I will leave you,” Abelas said with a slight bow.

It was not, Solas noted, directed at him.

“You have an hour before Josephine sends her runners to hunt you,” Abelas continued. “Avoid enjoying yourself too much, Lethallan.” Abelas turned, his body retreating into the forest, heading toward the distant yet looming gray walls of Tarasy’lan Tel’as.

“Stab you later, Lethallin,” she called.

Solas thought he heard Abelas laugh.

“You and Abelas,” he began.

“Are friends,” Eirwen replied. “Like I told you. Though,” she crossed her arms, tilting her head. “You may want to start with ‘hello’, ‘how have you been’, or better yet ‘this is why I never came to see you’ instead of zeroing in on my more recent relationships.”

_Relationships…_ “Ir abelas,” Solas said slowly. “I did not realize.”

“ _Friends_.” Eirwen prodded his chest with an index finger. “Casual sex friends, sure, but just friends.” It whipped up, blindingly quick; and playfully snapped the tip of his nose.

He blinked. Winced. “Ah,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “Ah.” Her eyes narrowed. “He was there for me when I needed him.” Her head cocked to the side. “When you weren’t.”

_Forgiven, perhaps,_ Solas thought, _but certainly not forgotten._

“I mean,” she swallowed. “Who are you even? Solas?” She peered at him. “Fen’harel? What do I call you?”

“I am both, you may refer to me as either,” he said. “After my long slumber within in uthenera, I took up a name for a new world. A reminder of my greatest flaw, so I might never again forget.”

Eirwen’s eyes closed. “Pride.”

“Yes,” Solas said.

“Fen’harel, the one responsible for sealing away the elven gods.”

He paused. “Are you disappointed?”

“Once maybe,” Eirwen said. “I might’ve been, but after the Well of Sorrows?” Her lips pursed. “After Morrigan, Flemeth, and Mythal?” Eirwen’s hands scrubbed her pants. “After what you said? After everything Abelas told me? No.” She shook her head. “Not really. It’s just…” Her head hung. “I really don’t know you at all, do I?”

“I believe I said once that you saw more than most.”

“Right,” Eirwen replied. “But most isn’t all and there’s just so much missing, so much context in everything you didn’t say.” She frowned. “Ar lath ma, Solas. I love you. I just…” she trailed off. “I don’t know which _you_ I’m in love with.”

“That is perfectly understandable,” Solas replied.

“I need time to find out,” Eirwen added.

“Again, you approach the situation rationally, logically. It is reasonable—”

Her hands seized his head and she yanked him down. Mouth pressed to his lips in a surprisingly forceful kiss.

He gripped her shoulders, fingers digging into slick skin. He had barely allowed himself to notice her nakedness before, now desire came rushing out. He pulled her to him, deepening the kiss. Forceful. Demanding. Desperate. Filled with his need for her. Yes. He needed her. Just her. Without her, there was no world. Without her, it could all burn.

She was the promise of all his better days.

Her head jerked up as she answered him. Her clever tongue spearing into his mouth, hot and wet. Toying with him, stroking the roof of his mouth, teasing the very tip of his. She sucked his lower lip into her mouth, running her teeth of the rough dry surface.

He growled. His inner wolf leaping inside his chest, he crushed her to him.

Her mouth matched him pulse for pulse, gasp for gasp, and each growl with a ferocious, almost purring, snarl.

He could have her here. Press her to the sun warmed grass, rip aside her pants, and simply slide…

Solas paused. _I don’t know which you…_ her words echoed in him.

“Solas?” Eirwen’s voice was a whisper.

His hands slid down her arms, slowly. Savoring each lingering burn from her skin as he went. “You were correct,” he said. “We do not truly know one another.”

“No,” she agreed softly.

“You are too important to me, vhenan,” Solas said. “I cannot risk losing you, not now...”

Her hand lay against his cheek. “Never.” Thumb stroking his skin, her eyes on his lips. “Not ever.”

“We must proceed carefully,” he continued. “There is much yet I need to confess.” His body ached to say the words. “And you, vhenan.” He swallowed. “You have changed as well.” He felt her tremble in his hands. “We must begin again.”

“You’re right,” Eirwen panted. “We should do this slowly. Take our time.” Her soft voice lingered in his ears. “Get to know each other.” It had a breathless quality to it. “Again.”

His kisses still left her breathless.

She turned to go.

Solas caught her arm.

It felt like that moment on her Skyhold balcony. In a glen, at noon, in summer with neither sunset nor the cold. When he had given his reasons, all good ones for why they shouldn’t do this. When need overpowered common sense. His breath hitched in his throat.

Now, he understood as he hadn’t then, how easy it would be for her to tear free and walk away. Through the whole of their relationship, she had pursued him. The one held on the edge of rejection, knowing at any point he might pull away. He had thought, wrongly, that simply returning to Skyhold would be enough. He merely had to wait. _She has never even heard the entire story from my lips._ Perhaps, the time had come to give chase.

“I know, we cannot simply return to what was. I have done you a great wrong and I have not apologized for it, not truly. I can only offer now what I was afraid to in our last… when I…” he swallowed.

Eirwen stood still.

“Inquisitor… Vhenan…”

Her face shadowed by light filtering through overhanging branches.

_Turn back_ , he thought. “Eirwen, please, do not leave.”

Her head lifted and she exhaled a soft sigh, then Eirwen glanced over her shoulder. Her warm irises settled on him, a faint smile curving her lips. Arms flew around his neck and she pulled him down into another crushing kiss. The heat of her mouth seared his skin.

He yanked her tightly to him, fitting her hard, sweat slicked frame to his body. His leg slid between her thighs, tongue plunging into her mouth. Arms wrapping tightly about her waist, he bent her back. Each wet pulse thrust deeper, playing with her tongue.

Her arms cinched around his neck. A soft moan vibrated on his lips.

Pulling her up, Solas rested his forehead on her brow.

Fine orange hair tickled his scalp as warm blue eyes opened, lashes fluttering on his cheek. “We’re a pair of idiots, you know,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he replied with a chuckle. “I believe you are correct.”

“We shouldn’t do this.” She swallowed. “It’s… I don’t know. Too much.”

Cupping her face, he traced her cheekbones with his thumbs. “You know as well as I,” Solas said. Slowly, he lifted her chin until their eyes met. “We are both too foolish not to.”

Eirwen sniffed, large globs of water glittering on her lashes. “That’s true.”

Hot tears splashed on his fingers.

She laughed, then hit his chest. “I missed you!”

“And I you.” _More than you may ever know._

Eirwen leaned forward, brushing the tip of her nose across his. “Aneth ara, Fen’harel.”

A grin tugged his mouth. “Aneth ara, ma lath.”

“You know,” Eirwen began. “If we’re really going to do this, it would probably be a good idea to start calling me by my—”

Grin widening, he pulled her in for yet another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Technically, "Aneth Ara" means my safe place but here I sort of used it to mean "Welcome home". "Lingering in the Sun" dealt with a lot of questions I had about how Solas and Lavellan might reunite, but overcoming betrayal is never quite that easy. So, this prompt ended up becoming a rather long fic about Solas discovering how much Lavellan has changed.


End file.
